


Dimacember

by SoulPhrase



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Spoilers for the Blue Lions route
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:36:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21657664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulPhrase/pseuds/SoulPhrase
Summary: Thirty-one days of Dimitri. Based on notsofatpinkcat's prompt list on twitter (https://twitter.com/notsofatpinkcat/status/1190412975149993984?s=20). Some smut is planned for the last few days, so the rating will be bumped up then.Day 8: Comfort
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Dedue Molinaro, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & My Unit | Byleth, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 10
Kudos: 117





	1. Tea

Between Dimitri’s gloved palms sits a cup of chamomile tea.

He breathes in its scent with a sigh. Delicate and warm as always. Like liquid amber, chamomile often puts Dimitri in a good mood. It would be no exaggeration to call it his _favorite_ tea.

The prince had never told Byleth such, yet she serves it for him every time. She’s more observant than she looks: likely studied from their frequent afternoon teas. He often wonders why.

Why _him_ , of all the Blue Lions? Did she yearn to know him for his status as house leader? Nay, as the crown prince of Faerghus? Byleth hardly seems the sort for ulterior motives, but curiosity is an unkind vice.

Goddess forbid, could the professor be enamored by his looks? She’s revealed no signs of that, either. Yet wanderings eyes are drawn to their shared meals, even now. Watching, wondering… conjuring whatever meanings are convenient to their interpretations of the scene. Favoritism, whether as teacher and student or as star-crossed lovers, Dimitri cares not for what other students think of them. Not one bit.

Rather, he’s beginning to dread these visits for a _different_ reason entirely.

“Have you tried the biscuits, Dimitri? They’re delightful.”

The prince swallows when Byleth addresses him. She slips a cookie whole past her lips, stuffing her cheeks as she chews. Crumbs stick to smears of red along the edge of her mouth and Dimitri can’t help but smile. Byleth never worries about putting on airs with him despite the disparity between their stations. Two wildly different upbringings, but here they sit together and forget about everything that sets them apart.

Well… _most_ things.

“I’ve never had a jam like this before. What sort of berry do you think it is?”

Dimitri forces a chuckle past the lump in his throat at Byleth’s remark.

He looks down to the treats in question: biscuits baked a golden brown topped with a red jam. The pulp is reduced to a fine spread with no discernible chunks of fruit inside. Dimitri picks a cookie from the tray and takes a cautious bite. His professor watches with zeal, waiting for a response.

Could the flavor be raspberry? Strawberry, or even cherry?

Little does she know that he can't even tell those apart.

The distinctive crunch is his only indicator of eating anything at all.

“I have to admit, berries like these are scarcely grown in Faerghus. I can’t say I know them either, but…”

Dimitri stares at the remaining half of the treat he’s bitten into, forcing a smile.

“I enjoy them, all the same.”

Byleth sinks back into her chair, visibly relieved. She reaches for her cup and Dimitri follows suit with his own, taking a gentle sip of the chamomile. It passes over his tongue like water, offering little else.

The meal resumes this way, just as it always does. He requests her feedback based on their training prior in the day. She instead seeks to learn more _superficial_ matters. The titles of books he’s read as of late, how he handles his weapon upkeep...

She offers him regular praise, undeserving as he feels.

Dimitri merely smiles and nods through their conversations, laughing whenever the urge blossoms in his chest. He prefers to talk instead of eating, but he’s certain to consume a few sweets to ensure he doesn’t unsettle her. The chocolate cake, the scones, their chamomile tea—all the same past his first bite.

He’s endured four years without his ability to taste. It was difficult at first—a constant reminder of the Tragedy that had befallen him and his loved ones. The forgotten luxury of enjoying the flavors life has to offer pales in comparison. Dimitri learned to accept it quickly, regarding food as filler for his stomach. Fuel for his training.

Now, seeing Byleth dredges back tiresome feelings towards his stolen taste. Normally so stoic, the former mercenary gleams with enthusiasm whenever food is involved. Garreg Mach provides many new flavors for her to try, pleasures to be discovered in cuisine. Even the simple meat and vegetable stews he had grown up with in Fhirdiad were foreign to her.

Dimitri yearns to experience that journey with her: to share his favorite meals and taste them alongside her. Impossible. 

All he has left are memories, and even nostalgia only weakens with time.

He could deny it no longer.

He craves to taste again. From the sweetest of desserts to the simplest of breads, he covets it all. Even the vegetables he’d always turned his nose away from as a child. Foul as they smell, he’d welcome such bitterness if it meant he could taste at all.

Dimitri feels his hand trembling around the handle of his teacup, threatening to snap it between his fingers. He breathes in the chamomile’s scent to soothe himself before Byleth catches on, and he can’t help but wonder if the tea tastes as good as it smells. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> admittedly i feel like i've been getting rusty with some writer's block, so hopefully taking this on is gonna push me through it and motivate me to work on all my other WIPs haha... also a good chunk of these will end up with angsty vibes so look forward to it (or not, understandably)


	2. Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> spoilers: contrary to the chapter name this isn't very warm or fuzzy at all

Dimitri kneels before the fireplace in his room with a sigh. He pulls the furs draped over his shoulders closer to his shivering form in hopes of staving off the chill. No luck.

The prince's body is warm enough, given his excessive layers of clothing and proximity to the flame. Any closer and he could risk being burned. Flecks of embers rise in their aimless path from the hearth, singing wherever they land. Dimitri pays them no mind.

His fingers instead idly brush over the goosebumps on his arms. It's been days since his return to Fhirdiad, yet the dreadful tremor in his bones persists. No matter how frequent his baths, he can't erase the scent of death on his hands. The feel of raw, warm blood on his skin. 

. . .

It had been his first battle: to quell a rebellion in the west. 

The opposition was poorly trained, wholly unequipped for combat. Men carried pitchforks instead of spears, simple daggers over swords. They knew nothing of military strategy and formation, which Dimitri had been introduced to since childhood. More of a danger to themselves than others in such pitiful states, but his standing as crown prince risked devastation if they were left neglected. It had to be done.

Yes... it had to be done, he'd repeatedly told himself. 

But what if there were an alternative? A path where justice could be found without ruthless, senseless bloodshed?

He doesn't want to consider it, not now. The past cannot be undone.

Even if Dimitri could turn back time to right his wrongs, would that have been enough to stop him?

He could almost hear their voices among the crackling flames. The shrieks of farmers and townsfolk impaled by steel. Fathers and sons, all mowed down like wheat. 

It terrified Dimitri at first. To watch the lives of so many cut short with such ease. The fear of how his duty required that he reap them as well. His attempts at avoiding the killing proved futile and his moment eventually came. 

A soldier, dropped at the mere swing of his lance. How weak he had been, how easily he fell. Dimitri felt his blood ignite at the scene; his thoughts, his heartbeat—overwhelmed. A surge of energy he had never experienced before engulfed him. Intentions he had never considered rose to the forefront of his conscious. 

What if the assassins at Duscur had been this weak, all along?

Father had been too kind, and that led to his downfall. He and Lambert had the strength to kill anything, _anyone_ they wanted. He'd just never tried, before. Never seen how effortless it could be.

How _exhilarating_ it would be. 

The stinks of flesh and iron filled the air from the ensuing slaughter. Heads left rolling, stomachs gored open... he explored the different methods of killing available to him. He discovered that he didn't even need a weapon at all; humans were so fragile that his bare hands alone could rip them to shreds.

Dimitri found it _intoxicating_. 

At the end of the massacre, Felix caught up with him. Even looking back, Dimitri couldn't recall how his friend reacted at the time. Anger and revulsion, most likely.

He could only recall standing in a field of corpses, all mutilated beyond recognition. A locket in his hand, only bearing some strands of golden hair. His eyes wrenched shut and head tilted back, ears numb to all but one sound.

Laughter.

At the people he had murdered in cold blood, at himself in disgust from how he'd _enjoyed_ it at all... Dimitri didn't understand why, but the laughter came without end. In that moment he felt no sadness, no joy.

It was hollow, empty amusement. 

. . .

Dimitri stretches his hand out towards the fireplace. His palm hovers above each lick of flame, simple warmth flourishing into uncomfortable heat. 

How badly would it burn if he thrust his fist entirely into the blaze? Would that be enough to absolve his wretched hands from his sins?

He considers it, but even that wouldn't be enough to halt him for certain. Instead, he continues to sit beside the flames and reminisce. Well-fed, finely clothed... immune to the frigid conditions outside of his room. 

Undeserved comfort.


	3. Sleepy

It takes a single breath to extinguish the candle's flame. 

The room goes dark in an instant. Dimitri sets the candle on his bedside drawer, next to the book he finished reading. Who knew that weapon maintenance warranted an entire tome's worth of wisdom? A fascinating subject, though he would rather learn it through practice than from text off a page.

Still, a prince requires greater understanding of battle than just the basics. He's done little but cultivate his combat prowess these days. Study in the morning and train until sunset, then studying again before bed. Given King Lambert's passing, preparations for Dimitri to take the throne are more crucial now than ever before. 

Long gone are the days of reading fairy tales and chivalrous ventures of old. 

Drawing a yawn, Dimitri plummets down into his bedding. Today was as loaded as the day before, with tomorrow expected to be even busier. His thoughts are a bleary haze after reading all evening.

It isn't long before his eyelids drift shut and his conscious begins to wander.

Dimitri never considered himself much of a dreamer. He loves to help others in need, but thinks little of his own future. The prince never had to: his position in life was determined on the day of his birth. He lived each day as it came, thought little of its passing. Each present to present, ignorant to his past and future. 

With his family now gone, the past is all Dimitri has left. There is no future with his father alive. No present where he could see his stepmother's gentle smile. He has little left to hope for but to escape in deep slumber when night comes.

To enter a world of dreams, where he can live out life as it once was. Where he can experience the gentle, _real_ touch of his mother's hand as they stroll through fields of flowers. So they could see how much he's grown in mere months. To hear his father say 'I love you,' one last time.

Yes...

One last time.

"Father," Dimitri whispers.

It's just the two of them, Lambert tucking the young prince in to bed. Dimitri turns in his sheets, peering at the man's features. Clear, bold eyes. The scruffy beard that always scraped against his cheek when Lambert kissed him good night during childhood. The thin, kind smile that graced his lips whenever Dimitri addressed him as 'father.' 

Just like Dimitri remembers.

"I miss you."

The words fall out on their own as Dimitri reaches out for Lambert's hand. Their fingers twine together, as they once did when he was but an adolescent seeking his father's advice.

Yet instead of warmth, Dimitri finds his father's hands to be clammy, unnaturally pale. Cold as stone. 

His tone, callous.

"You have not fulfilled your duty to us, Dimitri."

His hand is trapped in a crushing grip, large fingers digging into his knuckles. Dimitri cries out in pain, wrenching himself away with a firm twist of his wrist. He forces his body to the opposite side of the bed to distance himself from Lambert, only now seeing what he's become.

In place of his head is a gaping stump, blood seeping out and along what little remains of his neck. His head, severed clean off, is nowhere to be seen. Yet his voice rings clear through Dimitri's ears.

Just like Dimitri remembers.

"Do you forgive them for what they did? Is that why you have not enacted our revenge?"

Lambert's body looms towards Dimitri, engrossed in pinching himself awake. The biting pain makes little difference. Dimitri thrusts himself upright but finds his legs frozen in fear, unable to leave the bed. His pulse races, body breaking out in a cold sweat.

A chill staggers through his spine as Dimitri gauges the surroundings of his nightmare.

He isn't actually asleep. 

"Find them, Dimitri. Ensure there are no survivors."  
  
Cowering, Dimitri buries his head between two pillows and closes his eyes. He can't think of another way to shut out the voice. To force away that ghastly apparition of his father lingering overhead. But the sound refuses to cease, to even quiet at all. 

He can still hear the withering gasps of his father nearby. The gurgling of blood in his open throat. 

"Wrench the life from their wicked bodies, dismember their carcasses! Leave naught but their entrails to feed the crows!"

He can scarcely hear himself sobbing between Lambert's words. He wants to make it stop, to plead his father to leave him alone. The words are caught in his throat, though, and Dimitri can only muster paltry whimpers. Even if he had the strength to speak, it would be meaningless. His father isn't at his bedside, not really.

The voice has been in his head all along, with nowhere left to go.

Not until he answers its pleas. 


	4. Snow

The silence in the grove is deafening, interrupted only by the descent of fresh snow. 

Dimitri strains his ears among the trees, stark and bone-white with frost. Waiting, watching for any indication of where his target may have gone. 

Gustave tasked him with hunting an elk earlier this morning. The prince practiced archery in the past, though mostly on scarecrows and target dummies. This marked his first attempt at hunting live game. 

Spotting an elk proved challenging enough, though taking it down in a single shot seemed preposterous. Despite his age and level of skill, his teacher insisted that Dimitri would be up for the task. Still, the worst that could happen would be returning empty-handed and having to embark alone into the winter chill for a second pursuit. 

So he accepted, and nearly succeeded. 

Whether beginner's luck or an underestimation of himself, Dimitri wasn't certain. Though it took more than just one draw of an arrow to count his lucky stars. He missed the crucial shot, lodging just below the buck's neck. It managed to run off, forcing Dimitri to follow.

He'd lost sight of the elk at that point. To his chagrin, Gustave taught him little of tracking animals on foot. The dents where hooves had trampled the snow were too haphazard for Dimitri to understand. He'd ended up walking in circles trying to follow along, to no avail. 

No sounds, no scents... not even the slightest hint of an injured elk in sight. Disappointing, considering it shouldn't have been able to wander very far.

As he turns to trek back home, he sees it. A sharp contrast to the black and white of the painted forest. Slathered on the side of a tree, moistening its icy bark. Still warm.

Blood.

Though not a convenient trail for him to follow, Dimitri can gather which direction the elk took. He rushes his way through the snow, eager to shorten their distance.

It isn't long before red specks stand vibrant against the ground, leading Dimitri right to his goal.

The elk stumbles against bramble at the sight of him, collapsing onto its back. Its wound divulges little by little, the arrow lodged within preventing excess bleeding. The animal spasms, kicking up sloshes of ice in a final struggle to escape. Its breathing is frantic, though no sound leaves its punctured throat. 

The sight makes Dimitri's heart sink. 

Had he landed his shot properly, the elk wouldn't be left to suffer like this. Writhing in pain, every desperate gasp of air an attempt to hang on a little longer. An elk of this size could certainly retaliate with its hefty antlers if he's not careful. Yet Dimitri can hardly think of the danger when this creature is so plainly at his mercy.

Helpless to survive, but with death just out of reach. 

Still, that decision isn't for prey to make. He had to complete his task.

Dimitri reaches for the dagger bound to his waist.

He swallows as he draws it from its sheath, dragging his feet closer to the dying animal. There's nothing but to be put out of its misery, yet Dimitri finds himself enthralled in morbid curiosity. To prolong these final moments, perhaps to relieve himself of his responsibility to finish what he'd started. Maybe even to see what happens when life ends as nature intended.

The answers elude him once he presses the knife to the elk's throat, making a decisive cut. 

Warm blood runs freely into the snow beneath. The elk's eyes become dull, glassy. If not for its vacant gaze, Dimitri would think the poor thing is simply sleeping. Astray in a sweet dream, as he once thought all animals did. A lie for children to protect them from learning the grisly truth about death. 

Truth or not, the deed is done. He'd neglected to bring anything to clean his hands with, not wanting to stain his clothes. Dimitri settles for burying them in some snow, watching the surrounding ice turn pink. No joy brims in his heart, no sense of accomplishment from what he's just committed.

A life, stolen by _his_ hand. 

The first of many more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one came out rushed but that's how it goes when you pile on a ton of WIPs, i guess. i'm more excited for the next two prompts, as they'll be a bit of a break from all the angst i've been putting out so far! (well, the next one might still be read in an angsty way, depending)


	5. Friendship

"They called you the prince."

Dimitri averts his eyes at the boy's accusation. He'd hoped to keep his standing a secret, but the circumstances weren't so kind. Turning in his seat, he reaches for the nearby roll of gauze.

  
  


"I am."

His patient flinches at Dimitri's admission, though doesn't protest further when he folds the bandage over an injured arm. A relief, given the earlier gossip among castle staff.

A lone Duscur native was being treated in castle grounds. He would turn the nurses away and refuse any kind of aid—by force, if needed. They thought it best to leave him in the streets to fend for himself. Otherwise, he was a waste of their time and resources. Against their protests, the boy would receive the care he desperately needed.

Dimitri made sure of it. 

  
  


"Then why help me? You should... _hate_ Duscur." 

He takes his time to find the words, grasping meaning to a foreign language. Dimitri understood it was prevalent for common folk on the outskirts of Fodlan to speak in their own tongues. All things considered, this survivor communicates well enough. Even so, his feelings read clear as day on his features.

Eyebrows knit tight, his gaze now downcast. His hands clench into fists, nails biting into his palms.

"Hate me, like they do."

  
  


Dimitri binds the last of his gauze to the boy's arm, silent. He understands the feeling of solitude all too well. To be robbed of everything dear to you at the selfish whims of others, left with nothing but resentment. The sole survivor, resigned to live on with only their memory.

But that was where the two of them differed greatly. His parents are gone, but Fhirdiad stands strong. He has a home to reside in, a country to defend. The same country that brought Duscur to the ground, leaving little but ashes behind. 

  
  


"I saw the culprits, the killers. They were not of Duscur." Dimitri gathers his thoughts, wanting to convey his feelings in a way the boy could understand. His jade eyes are focused elsewhere, but the prince continues.

"I watched everyone I love die in those flames. It was... hateful and cruel, but the people of Faerghus thought doing the same would be justice. It sickens me."

  
  


With that, Dimitri steps out of his seat. The native watches, eyes widening when Dimitri lowers himself to his knees. 

  
  


"I am crown prince, but I wasn't strong enough to stop the attacks."

He had failed his family once and it cost him everything. His inability to protect them only led to greater tragedy, and Dimitri often wondered what he could have done differently. How he'd deserved to die with them, and all he could do now is try to redeem himself.

Perhaps rescuing this boy would be his start. 

"Your suffering is my fault, and no apology could convey my full regret. Even so... I am sorry."

  
  


Minutes pass as silence lingers in the air. Dimitri ponders what the boy could be mulling over; if his message was understood at all. He holds his position, knees digging into the cold floor as he kneels. Finally, Dimitri receives his answer.

  
  


"I will hate Faerghus forever. For killing Duscur, my home." His heart sinks at the words, though he understands why. Dimitri is quick to ready another apology, but the native lifts his hand to halt him. 

"...But you seem different. I cannot forgive, not now." His spread palm turns into an outstretched hand. An invitation. Dimitri can hardly believe it, until the faintest hint of a grin curves at the boy's lips. 

"Someday, I forgive prince."

  
  


Dimitri feels heat prick at the edges of his eyes. He rubs the back of his hand over them in reflex, only to find moisture. Odd, considering the overwhelming urge for him to smile right back. He takes the outstretched hand and pulls himself up. 

"I do not deserve your forgiveness, but... thank you." 

Now on his feet, Dimitri encloses his free hand over their handshake. The native seems taken aback, given the tears streaming down Dimitri's cheeks as he continues. 

"I will become king in five years. When I do, I'll do everything I can to prove your innocence. To _help_ Duscur."

His grip tightens around their shared fists. Their eyes lock, Dimitri's gaze holding firm despite his blubbering. 

  
  


"I promise to you on my family's name."

  
  


The native's eyes shift between staring at their interwoven hands and the resolve in Dimitri's expression. He appears to be rendered speechless, confused. Dimitri offers him the chance to pull away, surprised to find his palms held even tighter. Then, something the prince didn't anticipate.

His hands are pulled to the other boy's chest, now quivering.

Face wet with tears.

  
  


Dimitri wants to offer an embrace, but the grip shared between them remains solid. He relents and stands still as the other survivor of Duscur hunches before him, weeping. The sobs shared between them are relentless, time passing them by while they wallow in grief. 

Though their hearts continue to mourn, their tears eventually dry and the quiet returns.

"Thank you," the boy sniffs.

Dimitri only nods, collecting his bearings while he gasps for air. It's only then that he realizes their hands are still held together, wet from their tears. He hesitates to pull away, though his companion reads Dimitri's expression and separates himself. It's only then that Dimitri realizes he's neglected to ask the boy a pressing question.

Something important.

  
  


"What is your name?"

The boy's lips flap open before clamming shut, second-guessing if sharing that information would be ideal. He dries his hands on the weathered fabric of his pants as he thinks. It's enough to make Dimitri anxious, though not for long.

"Dedue. You?"

A chuckle escapes Dimitri's throat as soon as he hears him speak. To think he was afraid of Dedue dismissing such a simple question. Dimitri lifts a palm to his chest, beaming.

"I'm Dimitri. I'm... happy to meet you."


	6. Trust

Oh, goddess above.

How could he be so _incompetent?_

It's only been a week since his professor presented him with a very special offer. One that he readily accepted before understanding what it entailed. Perhaps he'd given himself too much credit. He should have known better than to accept at all, given his bloodline's reputation. 

But the damage is done, and there's little left to do but report his failure to her. 

Dimitri separates himself from his desk and pushes in his chair. He's certain the lock his door on the way out, beginning the search for his teacher. Given the hour, she's either training or taking an early meal. 

He makes his way to the training grounds, thinking back to their exchange the week prior. 

. . .

"Now do you see, professor? I'm hopeless when it comes to this."

Dimitri spreads open his palm, revealing the distorted mesh of metal inside. Once the handles for a pair of scissors, twisted by a sudden flex of his fingers. An unfortunate casualty of his sewing lessons, among many others. 

"Mercedes offered to teach me, for which I'm grateful. But at this rate, it will be a decade before I learn how to mend a cuff."

Sitting across from him, Byleth rubs her chin in thought.

"So what is the issue, exactly? The difficulty curve in learning how to sew?"

"Not necessarily," Dimitri says. "I'm referring to my tendency to break objects, even those which are not so fragile. Those with the Blaiddyd crest are notorious for harboring immense strength."

He clenches his gloved hand into a fist, unfurling it again. The scissor handles are reduced to scrap, unrecognizable from what they were moments ago. Byleth quirks an eyebrow at the sight, though her expression remains otherwise unchanged. 

"As you already know, mistakes are just a part of learning. It's bound to happen whenever you practice."

Despite the truth to her words, Dimitri's face tightens. 

"Yet I was taught to temper the effects of my crest throughout childhood. I should have improved by now."

If anything, his destructive habit only worsened since the Tragedy. With little certainty in his future aside from fulfilling his duty, perhaps he shouldn't be concerned with something so trivial. His burden is more of a gift when thrust into the throes of battle, anyhow.

Was it so wrong to hope for even the smallest semblance of normalcy?

"Then perhaps you simply need a different sort of practice."

His heart stops as she reaches for her chest, mind abruptly wrought with uncouth speculations as to what this 'practice' entails. A sigh of relief escapes him once she unclasps the brooch settled there, though finds himself with even fewer answers. 

"Professor?"

Byleth reaches for his outstretched palm, replacing the held jagged metal with her medallion. The pink tassel dangles off the edge of his hand and Dimitri feels compelled to correct it.

"The next time you're concerned about breaking something, I want you to hold it."

His chest warms at the thought of carrying something so dear to her; that she trusts him at all to keep it safe. To think that she regards him so highly... Dimitri finds it difficult to believe. 

"Professor, I must decline. I cannot risk tarnishing such a beloved possession of yours."

The last thing he wants is to damage her faith in him. Following through with this task is only tempting the inevitable, but Byleth seems ready to leave it at that. She scoots out of her chair, easing his hand away when Dimitri attempts to return her brooch. 

"Consider it an assignment for the rest of this month. See what happens."

. . .

And so, he tried. 

Every day, he would clutch the brooch with tremendous care. Fingers enclosed around its golden fringes, testing how much force he could apply while keeping a gentle touch. Despite his prior hesitation, Dimitri then understood why his professor left him such a task at all. 

Holding an item with such significance made him naturally inclined to keep it safe.

At least, he'd _thought_ so until this morning.

He'd just woken from a nightmare–visions of the Tragedy, reminders of his transgressions. Hoping the brooch could offer him peace, he placed it over his heart in prayer. Yet the terrors plagued him further, no matter how desperate his pleas. Worse still was the foreboding _crunch_ against his chest. 

Removing his palm only confirmed Dimitri's fears: once intricate, gold plating reduced to a flattened pulp. Mortification couldn't even begin to describe the horror that wracked Dimitri at the sight. He'd nearly fainted from the magnitude of his failure, though his responsibility to confess the truth kept him awake.

That brings him to now, with Byleth in his sights. Out in the field, concluding a spar with Ingrid. The other blond sends him a wave and a smile before returning her weapon to the armory. 

Convenient, given Dimitri would rather speak with their professor alone.

"Professor," he starts, capturing her attention. The words cluster in his throat and Dimitri grapples not to make a bumbling fool of himself. 

"I am terribly sorry to say this, but... hmm. Well, you can see for yourself."

He presents the crushed brooch to her, averting his eyes from his butchery. Stoic as Byleth often was, he'd hate to be the one responsible for breaking her heart. What if she suddenly bursts into tears?

"I'm beyond ashamed at my weakness, knowing that you took this off just for me." 

Maybe he could offer to buy her a new brooch, but that couldn't repair his mistake. That brooch could have been an adored keepsake from her father, or even an irreplaceable family heirloom.

But the scolding never comes–at least not in the way he expected.

"Please, Dimitri. No need to be so hard on yourself. This, too, is part of my task to you."

He blinks, failing to understand.

"It is?"

"It is," she repeats and her small, delicate hands fold over his own. Dimitri shivers at the contact, waiting for Byleth to retrieve the medallion from his palm. Yet her touch lingers, and the prince finds himself cautious of potential onlookers.

"Even if it's never the same as before, it can still be restored. It can still serve its function, and life moves on."

Before Dimitri can contemplate the meaning of her words, Byleth's hands withdraw. The loss of her touch leaves him dissatisfied, and he wishes she'd held on a little longer. His twinge of yearning almost drives him to reach out and draw her back in, closer.

_Almost._

"Let's see who can help us mend it, shall we? I know nothing of smithing metal."

Byleth turns on her heel and gestures for him to follow. Fingers running through his bangs, Dimitri gives a sigh of relief. His anxieties built throughout the week all seem inconsequential now.

He means to thank her for accepting his faults, but that can be done properly later. Instead, he places himself at her side and makes a cordial bow. 

"Yes, of course."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so many days behind, but i also really want to keep up with the deadlines considering dimitri's birthday is next week! might shorten several of the angsty prompts just to catch up, but we'll see.


	7. Frozen

The furs draped over his shoulders do little to warm Dimitri's icy flesh. 

He huddles closer to the fire he'd built, rubbing his palms together beside it. 

It is the dead of winter, and his encampment lies on the outskirts of Faerghus. Aside from that, he knows little else. He stopped keeping track of time after his second year of exile. Given his circumstances, such thoughts are a luxury he cannot afford.

His days are spent hunting and salvaging as much as his body permits. Some days his stomach is left empty. When the storms come, Dimitri is forced to wait it out in whatever shelter he manages to unearth.

Though a nuisance, the storm's passing provides him with great opportunities. A chance to relocate, discover territories that have yet to be picked over. Among... _other_ benefits.

He needs to make a move soon. Before the deluge returns and obscures what he's searching for. He has few belongings to gather: makeshift tools to hunt and start fires, a pot to boil water and extra layers of clothing. Not much, but every little thing counts when his survival is on the line.

He places a hat from his collection atop his head and over his ears, packing everything else into a convenient sack. Without even sparing a final look at his current abode, Dimitri make his leave.

. . .

The snow drags thick around Dimitri's furred heels. He has no destination in mind, but his instincts tell him to keep moving. Through such a vast, open field of white, Dimitri can hardly tell east from west. For now, directions could wait.

His latest haul lie buried within the snow, as it does following every winter squall.

Several corpses litter the ground, caked heavy with slushes of ice. Most are mere humps at first glance, indistinguishable from a small hill in the ground. Others have their frostbitten limbs exposed, solid as statues. 

The sight of such empty, meaningless death would've made him sad. Before, when he was but a curious youth in hopes of escaping his tragic destiny. Now, he feels nothing for them.

He uproots the nearest body with a single pull, quick to check for any valuables. A silver band on a finger catches his eye, though it's frozen tight to the hand. 

It's enough to make him wonder what sort of life this corpse—this _person_ once had. If their family knew of this person's passing in the blizzard, whether they had children of their own. How Dimitri himself once foolishly craved for such a future, himself.

Yet nature nor illness are known to discriminate. Kind or cruel, young and old... it didn't matter what kind of person they were. Death had claimed them here, leaving Dimitri to find the remains.

He snaps the frozen finger off the corpse's splayed hand, scraping the ring free as best he can. Though relatively plain, it will make some good money. The clothes are too useless to keep him warm, given how firmly they are frozen to their respective carcasses. Dimitri rips the boots free from their feet, either to sell or to keep for emergencies. 

One by one, he loots the bodies for anything of value. To ensure his survival, or can be peddled to keep him fed a little longer. 

Oh, how low the prince of Faerghus has fallen. Resorting to something so sacrilegious with what should be _his_ people. 

Perhaps the worst of all is that he feels no remorse for doing so.


	8. Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not the fluffy kind of comfort, that's for sure. this is the shortest fill so far with the holidays coming up and my other WIPs being worked on, so look forward to those! Dimacember will end up trickling into January as a result, but i hope y'all will be there with me at the end either way.

Life on the run is no different than the reality of a beast.

It is no longer your life to live; an existence with no purpose other than to eat, to sleep. To kill.

To survive.

In his isolation, there are days where Dimitri is certain that he's losing his mind. An animal clinging to life, reliant on its base instincts to escape death day by day. Where his desire for revenge, his emotions all bleed into a primitive demand to live.

It muddles his thoughts, worsens his headaches. The voices, reminders of his _failure_ only grow louder. He no longer remembers which voice corresponds to which face: they all reflect the same, malicious sentiments. 

He alleviates the pain the only way he knows how. A manner befitting a monster, nourishing his depravity. 

Execution.

. . .

Hunting animals does not offer the same satisfaction as sporting imperial soldiers. Animals don't scream, spawn pitiful begs for mercy. They don't have that _satisfying_ crack when their bones are snapped. The agonized twist of their faces the moment they realize that they, indeed, are about to die by Dimitri's will. 

But no animal murders for the sake of selfish pleasure. Every last imperial soldier is a monster, just like he is. Knowing that his massacres amount to less monsters in the world brings him relief, soothes his aching veins. 

Is it a false sense of comfort, in the end? A rationality that justifies his abominable lust for blood? 

Perhaps he truly is going mad. Perhaps he was never levelheaded to begin with.

The voice of reason thrumming in his skull is one Dimitri no longer recognizes. 


End file.
